


Let Me Touch Your Fire

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Dirty Talk, I hate these tags., It's definitely there and there's quite a lot of it but it's uhh... not super descriptive, It's porny but not that porny. There's feelings., Just a little but buut, M/M, Masochism, Mild Sexual Content, Not that many but like... they're there... these two are weird., You know how it be with these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: “You should know, Wani-yaro, that I get what I want.”(Normally, I'd break your heart.)





	Let Me Touch Your Fire

**Author's Note:**

> We're all suckers for Doffy on his knees, lol. I hate these horny boomers so much.

“You should know, Wani-yaro, that I get what I want.” Doflamingo looks up at the other man from under his shades, dark pupils absorbing and reflecting the dim, blue light of the room which filtered through the water of the aquarium surrounding them in a waning crescent. Crocodile dares not honor him with a response, swallowing around the way the words roll off his lover’s tongue like oil slick. His head hovers mere inches above his belly button, back arched wickedly deep and shoulders raised in a display of mock submission, one hand spread wide against the planes of his back and the other splayed over his thigh, every finely tuned strand of muscle at full attention for Crocodile. He smolders under the older man’s stare, pulled taut, perfectly crooked at his limits, soft aquamarine light playing over his exposed skin in dapples and pools that fluctuate with the circulating water, another one of his own delicate puppets on display. Fucking hot, if he says so himself. 

He ducks forward minutely, throat pressing against the curve of Crocodile’s hook for just long enough to draw a thin line of crimson, before ducking his head impossibly lower, straining his neck hard enough to make the older man swallow at the sight, before letting his tongue loll from his mouth. The blonde swipes along his lower lip once before allowing the obscenely long appendage to drop from his mouth and wrap along the curve of the metal, cool despite the point of contact against his feverish skin. He makes a point to slurp noisily, the sound obscenely loud and wet against the dry rasp of Crocodile’s even breathing and the soft electric hum of the filtration system. Doflamingo can practically feel the dark-haired man’s embarrassment, desire to slip from his skin, and further than that, desire to slip into Doflamingo’s. He hums, an unabashedly gleeful noise as his tongue flicks against the tip of the hook, painting it a slick red. Crocodile stifles a smile into an annoyed twitch of the eye, understanding not only the display of that obscene tongue as a move of seduction, but something on a deeper level, something the older warlord doubts that the other man is even capable of, _ trust _. To allow the gold--which concealed the rich hiss of a toxic purple in the warlord’s normal matters--direct contact, access to his bloodstream, trusting the man to have a clean hook, was a nearly symbolic notion. 

The hook swings wide in its retraction, slamming past Donquixote’s nose with a satisfying _ crunch _ and the clatter of garish plastic shades on tile _ . _ The warlord makes no attempt to stifle his moan, long and stuttering as blood, hot and heady, flows freely into his mouth. Crocodile swallows a cough at that, moving to turn his attention to the tight confines of his slacks, stopped by _ that damn shit-eating grin _ , teeth slicked pink with his blood, tongue obscured by the perfectly interlocking set of veritable fangs. Doflamingo surges upwards, eyes doing their best to plead when paired with that ridiculous mouth of his, and Crocodile _ allows _ him the privilege of tangling the hand that was previously on his thigh in his silk cravat, bending to allow the younger to pull him into a kiss that’s all tongue and sweet, wet friction. 

It tastes like ash and blood and he can hear the gargling stop-start of the other’s heart in the pulsing of rich liquid which paints Crocodile’s cheeks and upper lip, feels the deliciously easy give of the typically stubborn cartilage of Doflamingo’s hooked nose against his own as he brings his hands to net around the back of his head and roughly force him closer, his own hips being pushed back just enough to accomodate for the new height of the man kneeling before him. Crocodile sighs into the kiss, chuckling against his mouth as he feels the ever-tittering hands of the blonde make their way to the noticeable bulge in the silky black fabric, simply petting over the curve, making no move to free the elder’s cock. Doflamingo’s eyes provide him the answer to his unasked question. _ I’m playing. _ He can practically hear the lilting _ siiir _ and he growls into the collective heat of their mouths, pleased at the jolt he feels, the split second where everything in Doflamingo’s brain melts to lust in response and his hands scrabble to undo Crocodile’s slacks as quickly as possible, nails clicking harshly against the metal of his zipper, fingers worrying the fine button ( _ bone, expensive _ , he notes through his haze, _ do not tear off, _). Doflamingo whines like an animal, barely lucid, and rolls his eyes back into his skull in sheer glee as his questing fingers hook in black briefs, tugging them down in one sharp movement. He coughs on the blood still spilling down his face and throat, laughing maniacally and rocking back into the hands which secure him. Crocodile’s length is warm, heavy in his hand as he extends the reach for Crocodile’s hips which are set back. He laughs even more as the older man dips even further to nip along the blonde’s jawline, tasting the sanguine liquid that spills over the alabaster column of his throat. 

“Mm, here I am, nose broken like a _ motherfucker _ and on my knees for you, (Here it comes, Crocodile thinks, he can taste it almost as clearly as the metallic thrum of blood assaulting his senses) _ siiir. _” Doflamingo throws his head back as he talks, and Crocodile rewards him with a low hum and a nip to the jugular. 

“And here you are, _ bent in two like a whore,” _ He roughly flips the wrist holding the warlord’s dick, _ “for a taste of me.” _ Another jerk. “Have to wonder what the view’s like back there. Not that it’s anything I’ve never seen.” Crocodile freezes, if only for a second, words sinking hot in his gut as shameful ballasts of arousal and making his cock twitch in the puppeteer’s hands. _ A victory. _ And yet, as always, Crocodile rebounds almost immediately, a dark chuckle emanating from somewhere deep in his chest, damp and powerful and so damn _ sexy _. The blonde suppresses a full body shudder, excitement for the man’s reply zinging through his body like a livewire and straight into his dick. 

“Remind me who this is for again?” Crocodile bucks into the hand gripping his erection fully. Rather than a lapse of control, a command. The dry slide is delicious against Doflamingo’s hot palms. “I think I’ve been rather generous.”

Doflamingo laughs again--does the damn bird ever stop squawking?--“Weak, but adequate.” He knows the words brewing in Crocodile’s throat even better than the man himself. 

“Out of character, but let’s cut the banter. I’m fucking horny.”, the blonde giggles around the words, a schoolgirl choking on secrets. He gags on blood and Crocodile’s rich laughter reverberates up the blonde’s throat as he talks.

“Gonna say please for me?” Crocodile is smiling against him, _ smiling _, and if he were a more tender man he’d describe the zinging elation in his heart as singing out for the older man, but Doflamingo knows to avoid those sentiments. He purrs instead, high and mock-saccharine. 

“Oh, oh, of course, sir.” He’s giggling around the words, tosses them in his mouth like fruit, sweet and round, splitting open raw on his teeth. Crocodile rises to his full height, all eight feet, and it sends another little jolt of electricity down the blonde’s spine, despite his own imposing size, and he can feel the weighty press of metal, warmed by skin, against his crown. Crocodile’s nails scritch against his scalp appreciatively as he opens his mouth to sing for him again.

“Would you ple-ease put your dick in my mouth? I want you so bad. Don’t you think you’ve kept me waiting long enough? Don’t you want to feel m-” 

Crocodile refuses to meet his eyes, but Doflamingo grins, peeling his face back again into a smile, lets his tongue drop and closes his eyes. 

* * *

Donquixote smiles, a small up-quirk of the mouth rather than his typical wolf’s grin for the sake of his cheeks, face pressed fast to the plush of a pillow, his now-righted nose being soothed by the pressure and cooling his upper lip and chin, tacky with dried blood. He wiggles his legs childishly to feel the sheets, high thread count, absolutely luxurious, brush and muss his leg hair, saturating the cloth with the scent of his sweat. The pillowcase is downy-soft, and he opens his mouth to run his tongue over the silk, feeling the grain of the cloth against his taste buds, appreciative of the older warlord’s fine taste. 

“You’re disgusting.” Crocodile thumps the small of his back punitively with his stump as he speaks, but the blonde simply laughs into the fabric, his shoulders bobbing and head down. He runs his stump in absent circles along the bare skin of the blonde, hardly registering the clammy slide, but listening instead to the other warlord’s grateful humming as he works against the knots of his lower back. His cigar hangs loosely, and he bites just enough to hold it erect and light it, fingers sliding effortlessly over the lighter he recovered from the bedside. The puppeteer is watching now, dark eyes absorbing every movement, waiting until the end of the cigar begins to furl from heat and catches coquelicot, before turning to hover over the other man, demanding the attention of his mouth and making Crocodile growl into the other man’s sloppy tongue work. Doflamingo lets loose a happy whine and plucks the cigar from Crocodile, dry and rough in contrast to the skin sliding under his other hand, still damp from exertion. 

“So damn touchy. Don’t make me waste my cigars.” Crocodile’s eyes are hooded, and his voice is warm and rusty and it makes Donquixote tuck his nose, still throbbing absently, into the crook of his neck. The blonde holds the cigar back, just out of reach for a moment, until he feels Crocodile tip his head back to allow the younger further access. Another squeak of contentment, and he returns the smoke to him, feeling the leisurely arch of the journey the cigar takes to return to Crocodile’s mouth, commanding and smooth. He takes a single drag, passively enjoying the feel of Doflamingo’s scraping, enjoying the broad, wet licks much less, while the blonde enjoys the rattle of smoke and the warmth of the elder’s throat. Crocodile presses his back flush to the headboard, tipping his head back until it hits the wall as Donquixote licks up flecks of dried blood from his skin, rehydrating it and letting it run in small rivulets.

The blonde rises, kisses him again, cheek warmed by the cherry of the cigar pushed to the corner of Crocodile’s mouth, before further taking advantage of his imposing frame to lay a kiss to Crocodile’s mussed hairline. He glances up, the near-magnanimous swell of the younger warlord overwhelming his vision, swallowing him, before his eyes lock onto that of the puppeteer. For a split second, something is shared. Doflamingo’s face twitches, before his face splits like someone’s taken an axe to it, and he flops back down onto the bed, laughing raucously. 

“Shut up,” but with that Crocodile leans down and places a kiss of his own, dry and uniquely chaste, the press of chapped lips to creased forehead unbearably tender for the two, before cringing minutely and dropping back to pull the fabric of the blanket over his shoulder as he rolls onto his side. 

The puppeteer raises a hand, watches it twitch in the air before dropping it back to the sheet before a smile, a small amused huff of air. He slides his fingers over the sheet, following the curve of Crocodile’s arm and back, before pulling himself flush and snuggling against the fabric with his cheek, head tucked juvenilely. He hums again, reveling in Crocodile’s minute jolt at the sudden, kind touch and shuts his eyes.

“Be gone by the time I wake up, stupid bird.” 

More laughter, then silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: hazeism.tumblr.com
> 
> Leave a comment or something if you can, I live off the validation of strangers. Mwah.


End file.
